


Charcoal Dreams

by ruffysan



Category: One Piece
Genre: Child Labor, Gen, Pre-Timeskip, quite political, the crews' whereabouts, to dream, universe-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-30 18:33:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8544559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruffysan/pseuds/ruffysan
Summary: There's this fire of bravery sparked by charcoal sketches inside a young girl's heart. Her name is Soran. She's slave number 3333 in East Blue's ongoing bridge construction that had span for more than 700 years. This is a two-part story that took place before and after Robin was transported by Warlord Kuma "The Tyrant" at Tequila Wolf, a village built for slavery in a project of the World Government to 'bridge' islands.One Piece Two-Shot. © Characters and Universe by Eiichiro Oda.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is Ruffy.  
> I have been working on this two-shot about Soran, the girl Robin met at the glimpses of the crew's whereabouts. I really feel very deeply on the issue of slavery and child labor depicted in the series.
> 
> This two-part fic covers the story of Soran before and after Robin happened to her life in Tequila Wolf.
> 
> Enjoy!

##  `charcoal dreams`

###  `dreams before her`

An all-time winter weather with layers of centuries-piled snow covered Tequila Wolf, a village built on an under-construction bridge located in East Blue. From the palest of colors drained by snow were lines and lines of blue work-suited slaves. Their corresponding numbers stitched on the worn down clothing, held by loosely by frozen threads—possibly caused by the often whispering and howling blizzards. Their supervisors, wore red winter clothes, pushed the bridge workers'. Most workers have reached their limit from working, cold and fatigue taking over them.

The Government had been intelligent enough to situate their workers in their own workplace. Assisted by their supervisors, workers, ignoring the torture given to the weakened members of their pool, continued to march. They were too exhausted to even empathize with others. There's just this line you do not have to cross when you know how powerless you are—when you are leashed to the same fate that they had befallen.

The night shift was about to end. One of the outstanding sight in the lines of workers was a girl, too small for her uniform, too fragile and too young to be working for her dear life, marching together with other workers. She wears her blonde hair tied in a loose knot behind her head. Her identification number is 3333. Slave number 3333. This young girl goes by the name Soran.

Soran passed by too many horrifying pictures of tortured-to-death cases almost every day. The mere report of a slave dying under the cruel snowfield wasn't even a surprise. Death was a serving she always had for breakfast. Her round eyes passed by the images, unemotional, a poker face most of them needed to survive. Crying seemed too much of a work, she guessed. And it won’t save her from anything. Fate is a cruel thing.

The young girl took herself in the comforts of what she and her cabin mates call "home." They catch their own flicker of light before getting in line for the ration of porridge at the far end of the hall. Soran's fickle body showed resistance to the pull of gravity intensified by the worn-out, not-fully-developed muscles she have.

After their ration, Soran headed to her place in the cabin. She climbed to the attic through a ladder, and slumped to the comforts of faded cloths layered after another. The wooden ceiling that she stared at seemed too boring and the ache she feels is slowly bringing her into sleep.

** _____ **

Soran woke up from a blank dream. The day shift workers were still on their tasks. Desperate, lonely times, like when watching snow fall and kiss the ground, brought her back to the days when she had her parents and her innocence about the cruelty of everything hadn’t been taken away. In order to stray away from the useless act of crying, she found herself a hobby. Something only she know of; a little secret she keeps. She didn’t need colorful dreams. Her often blank one will not stop her.

From behind the stacked pieces of woods, she gets one and a small block of charcoal. The brittle blackness of the burnt wood smudged over her small palm. For some reason it calmed her from the depressing world she had come into. The world of slavery and a non-stop, crazy idea of building a bridge running more than seven hundred years… holding a piece of charcoal, and still having the ability to _create_ something from something so bleak and black and worn down, burnt, made her _feel_ powerful.

She started with a point on the upper left of the wood, then, forming a curve from it, pressure applied at each stroke, she drew a cloud. Then, her imagination went wild. It was only a few minutes after when she finished her charcoal drawing: a dream of an island far from where she is, far high up. Higher than the clouds she ever see when she looks up. An island on the sky.

As she stare at her work, her heart welled up with conviction. She looked at the fogged up view through the window and knew that she could survive the day.

She stood up and revealed her stack of charcoal drawings. She placed her latest artwork over the others. _Someday, Soran. Someday. But for today, you should brace yourself. Stay alive._

Dreams _have_ powers. It was simply that.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked my attempt on capturing how the characters and universe set me to feel. Onwards we go for the other half :-)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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